by Claire Adams
Fairytales are fine and all, but one day, that little girl had to grow up and realize she’d only risen to the level unpaid intern because her brother worked for the company. I’d seen myself in the mirror, and I certainly didn’t look like Cinderella. Don’t get me wrong: I wasn’t all self-shame. There were a few of my qualities I hoped would never change.
First, I had a fantastic smile. It wasn’t just my meticulous dental hygiene, but my lips genuinely parted in an objectively pleasing way, so that was nice. Also, my breasts were fantastic. Still, there was nothing about me that even suggested “trophy girlfriend.”
Luke came into the house, and I went to greet him. We met in the kitchen.
“How’d it go?” I asked.
“Just the everyday nightmare,” he said. “You wouldn’t believe all the things that go wrong when something you’ve been counting on suddenly stops working.”
“Bummer. Any headway, though?”
“To tell you the truth, I don’t even know,” he answered. “It seems like we’ll make some forward progress, but it’s one of those ‘one step forward, two steps back’ kind of things.”
“Uh huh,” I said. There was still no easy solution to the fact Luke couldn’t know about Dean and me. Everything had to be nice and vague. “Who all is working on it?”
“Mostly guys on my floor,” he answered, rubbing his eyes as he grabbed a coffee mug. “Why?”
“I’m just curious, that’s all. I was wondering, though: What kind of factory do you guys have in Italy? I know you can’t go into what’s going on, but what is it you make there?”
“You know, games and stuff.” That’s about when the conversation turned surreal.
“Games?”
“Yeah,” he answered, scooping grounds into the coffeemaker and starting the brew. “We do a lot more with financial software in the banking system than we do with non-corporate entities. To turn things around, we started making games for kids to learn stuff about finance.”
“Finance.”
“Yeah,” he answered. “Why is that weird?”
“That doesn’t really strike me as the kind of game a child would be interested in unless, I don’t know, they get a gumball or a cellphone for making sure their balance sheets add up. That’s all.”
“It’s not as complicated as all that. It’s more cash registers and making change with plastic coins big enough they’re not a choking hazard to any child big enough to actually get one of them in its mouth. That sort of thing.”
“You make cash registers for Italian children in order to get them interested in finance?”
“There’s a whole line where if you get your parents to buy you all the pieces, you have a miniature grocery store. The price labels tick up and down depending on where the kid sets it, regardless whether it’s because they’re actually following market prices on their goods and adjusting for overhead or just because they want to charge people five dollars for a plastic tomato, I don’t know, but it seems to be getting them brand aware.”
“I’m not sure whether I’m more bothered by the fact you’re covertly marketing your company, and I’m assuming by extension your financial software, or that you keep referring to children as ‘it.’ You really don’t have a paternal clock ticking in there, do you?”
“We’re made differently, I think.”
It was a sleazy concept based on subliminal marketing to kids. It was exactly the sort of thing I could see Luke doing. The whole thing was probably his idea. All I had to do was figure out a good way to ask him more about Dean’s ex-wife without sounding too interested in the answer. I decided to just open my mouth and hope the words came out the right way. They didn’t.
Luke was taking his first sip of coffee, and at the moment my lips parted and I took that breath in, Isabella popped into my head. “Is Mr. Carrick in the mafia?”
I’d never actually seen someone do a spit take, but there it was—all over the front of my loose-fitting, day-off clothes.
“Where did you hear that?” Luke asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand while I stood frozen in the same position I was in when that first bit of coffee met fabric.
“You know how people talk. He doesn’t really seem like the kind of guy who would need the mafia. I don’t know. I guess I just wondered if there was anything to it.”
Luke set his coffee down on the counter. “There are a few things I haven’t really gone over with you about this business—not us specifically, but business in general. It doesn’t happen to everyone, but the closer you get to the top of a company, any company, the more likely it is you’re going to run into it at some point.”
A knot formed somewhere in my stomach and my knees threatened to buckle under me. “Tell me,” I said. “What is it people run into?”
Luke grabbed the hand towel from next to the sink and tossed it to me. “The most ridiculous rumors you’ll ever hear.” He smirked.
“It hasn’t happened to me yet, but there was a rumor a few years back that my boss, Mr. Yearly, is an escaped Nazi convict. The fact Mr. Yearly was still a kid when the Second World War ended—not to mention he was also born, raised, and has probably never left Manhattan because he wanted to, and is Jewish—didn’t seem to matter. Whoever posted it on the internet in the first place probably knew nothing about Mr. Yearly other than he was one of the higher-ups at the company.
“Being rich and powerful is just another way of saying, ‘I’m your scapegoat for everything.’ Everyone says everything’s a conspiracy these days and evidence to the contrary never makes a difference anymore. It’s pretty annoying, actually.”
“You do have to admit, people in your line of work do tend to be more corrupt and evil than pretty much anyone else on the planet, though.”
“Oh, definitely,” he agreed. “Get anywhere near banking and you’ve got blood on your hands in one way or another. Welcome to the family business, sis. You’re probably responsible for the upcoming military action in Canada.”
“What’s happening in Canada‽”
“I don’t know. I’m sure you’ve already been tainted by the unscrupulous whatever it is people want to think we do behind the scenes. You may as well just accept it and try not to let it affect your life too much. You’re one of the bad guys now. If you want to talk about the real mafia—”
“In the future, a simple ‘no’ is a perfectly acceptable response. You don’t have to make up a whole sarcastic bit over it.”
“Who says I’m being sarcastic?” he asked. “We may not be as bad as the banks themselves, but when you think about it, our whole existence is pretty terrible all on its own.”
“So he’s not a mobster, then.”
“No. There was some of that stuff back where he came from, but he was never a ‘made man’ or anything like that.”
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s because he’s so influential and because I’ve sat in a room with him a few times, but he seems like the kind of guy who would have a few secrets.”
“I’m sure he does,” Luke responded. “Can you say you don’t have any secrets?”
Ah, if he only knew. “I can see your point.” I still hadn’t asked the question I’d been waiting to ask. “Was he ever married?”
“Yeah, I told you he was, didn’t I?”
“But he’s not married now.”
“No. Do me a favor: Let that one drop. There are things in a person’s life that are simply nobody else’s business.”
There was no good way around that answer. “I wasn’t going to say anything to him about it. You know I hardly even talk in those meetings, and then it’s usually to ask if you want a double or triple espresso.”
“Sorry about the coffee,” Luke said, changing the subject. “You should probably throw that stuff in the washer before it has a chance to set.”
I looked down at my coffee-spattered pajama top. “Yeah, thanks for that.”
“Hey, I said sorry. God, you’re whiny.” He picked his mug back up and to
ok a sip of his coffee. That felt like a good time to leave the room. “Hey, Marce?” Luke said before I’d rounded the corner.
“Yeah?”
“Keep questions like that away from the office. I know people are going to start rumors and all that, but there’s no need to pile on, you know? Dean’s a good guy.”
“Yeah,” I said. Maybe he was.
I changed out of my pajamas and I took a shower. Luke’s whole spiel was both disgusting and exactly what I needed to hear.
Of course it occurred to me—about the time I pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant where Dean told me to meet him that night—that Luke hadn’t really told me anything. I’d bought the story about the factory specifically put in place to build a future demographic for their computer software because Luke was always just outside of ethical, but he’d effectively waved the rest of it off.
It was probably the same old self-doubt, but whatever the case, I still had that uneasiness in my gut as the maître d’ escorted me to Dean’s table.
“I wasn’t sure you were going to come,” Dean said. “I almost didn’t come, myself. I’m not accustomed to people not responding to me like that.”
I blinked and stood next to my chair. “I’m sorry,” I said.
“Please, sit.”
I sat. The thing about Dean was he had a way of taking control over me in a way I couldn’t understand. It wasn’t the fear and survival that had me asking “how high?” when Donny said jump. With Dean, it was more a quiet acknowledgement that I should listen to what he had to say, whatever it was. It was the difference between influence and extortion.
“I got your message,” I said. “I think maybe there are a few things we should talk about before we get too much farther.”
“Those are my thoughts, exactly. First, though, why don’t we order?”
“I can’t think of a good reason,” I smiled.
So, we ordered. I went with the salad, not so much because I was still nervous about eating in front of Dean, though I was, but because it was the only thing on the menu less than fifty bucks. He ordered something I couldn’t repeat if my life depended on it, and the moment the waiter left the table, Dean’s eyes burrowed into mine.
“I want to do something I don’t normally do and apologize to you.”
“Apologize for what?” I swallowed hard. This wasn’t going to be good.
“The first day you worked at the company and we ran into each other in the elevator, I was cold and dismissive. I told you not to make that first night together out to be more than it was. That was rude of me, but I didn’t think you and I were going to see each other again.
“Then when the elevator doors opened up and there you were waiting, I couldn’t help but think…. It doesn’t really matter. The fact is I shouldn’t have treated you that way, like you were a disposable person, because you’re not. In fact, I’ve noticed something over the past while, and I was hoping you could help me out with it.”
“Hopefully we’re past the point where you think I’m a crazy stalker lady,” I told him. Humor, so they say, can often be a way of diffusing uncomfortable situations.
“When you do what I do, all of your time is spoken for. There are days I have two or three things scheduled at the same time, not because someone made an error, but because each of those meetings is crucial to the welfare of the company. Those are the days that end in the letter y. What I’m getting at is it takes a lot for me to get my mind off of work long enough to enjoy much of anything. I’m not complaining, that’s just a reality of who I am and what I do.
“I’ve noticed, though, that when I’m with you, I’m not always thinking about what the market is going to do and how we can turn any situation into a profit. I’m not thinking about work at all. That’s,” he paused, “unusual for me.”
“I suppose I should take that as a compliment, then?”
“I don’t want you to get the wrong impression. I’m not suggesting we go any faster than we need to go. While I would continue to ask for your discretion, at least until things settle down at the company again, I want to get to know you better, spend more time with you. What would you think about you and me being official?”
“When you say ‘official,’ you mean—”
“When most people ask me to tell them about myself, they want to know how to get me to soften up for them. What they really want is a bargaining chip. Over the years, I’ve become the CEO more and more, and Dean Carrick less and less. There’s no easy way to trust anyone. When I’m with you, I don’t feel like that. I feel like—I don’t know how else to say it—I feel like myself.”
It was probably the most beautiful thing anyone had ever said to me, but he hadn’t really answered my question. “Thank you for that,” I told him. “It really means a lot for you to say that.” I took a breath. “So, when you say ‘dating,’ you mean what exactly?”
“That you and I get together for more than dinner and, uh,” he leaned toward me, whispering, “tremendous sex.” He leaned back. “Maybe we can get to know each other better and see where it leads.”
Why was he doing this? What could he possibly want from me? It’s not like I had a lot to offer. Looking down at the scale got to be such a depressing experience I’d stopped doing it. I wasn’t rich, and I didn’t go to an Ivy League school. I worked as an unpaid intern for Dean’s company. Maybe it was a less-risky version of the naughty secretary fantasy.
As I gazed across the table at Dean, though, there was something I hadn’t expected. He looked nervous. His expression was like a dog who really wants to do what you tell him to do, but he’s scared of deep water and you’ve just thrown the stick way too far into a lake.
He’d placed a considerable amount of power in my hands. I looked for any signs of deception, any tell that might give him away, but all I saw when I looked at him was honesty. He smiled almost sheepishly. It was disorienting coming from a man of such force and authority.
I smiled back at him. “I’d like that. So, would we still see other people, or—”
“Why, are you seeing someone else?”
“No.”
“Neither am I. Would you have any objection to keeping it that way?”
“No.”
“Okay,” he said. “You’re going to love that salad, by the way. Chef Delora does things with calamari unlike anything you’ve ever experienced.”
“Calamari?” I asked.
“Yes, did you not see that?”
I was looking at the price, not the ingredients. The dish was just called the House Salad; I didn’t equate that with squid. I had an open mind, though.
“You can order what you want in the future,” he whispered.
“What?” I whispered back.
“I don’t know what made you think you had to order by price.”
“I thought the house salad sounded good.”
“Have you ever tried calamari?”
“Well, no. That’s really not a problem, though. I bet it’ll be great.”
“You really don’t have to do that. Go on, be confident. Say what you want and then don’t just hope for it, expect it. Now, do you want to try squid for the first time tonight or would you rather have a little more time to consider the decision?”
“I’ve already ordered, though. I couldn’t ask them to change it now. They’ve probably already gotten started on it.”
“Well, there are two possible outcomes if you ask: either they’ll offer to change it, but insist on at least a partial payment for any ingredients which were wasted.”
“Or?”
“Or they’ll comp it because I eat here all the time, I’ve mentioned them in a very favorable way a few times in public and on camera, and I always order drinks—the really overpriced ones. I find the price tag makes it taste objectively better. Either way, you get what you want with no damage done.”
“I feel bad about wasting the food, though.” It sounded better in my head. “I mean, that’s a good meal someone
other than me could eat.”
“Do you have anyone in mind?”
“Do you know anyone who likes squid? Do they even let you take food out of here?”
“Why wouldn’t they let you take your food?”
“I just thought—”
“Marce, the question on the table is simple. Do you want to try squid for the first time tonight, yes or no?” he asked.
I was so frustrated. He was baiting me and I knew it. He was trying to get me to stand up to him, thus proving his point that I should be more assertive. The most annoying part about it, though, was he had a point. “No. Maybe someday, but I’d really like a dinner that’s not a gamble.”
“There you go,” he said. “You’ll be surprised at what can happen when you ask. It’s all confidence. People respond to that more than they respond to any higher logic.”
“I’m not that confident.”
“Why not? You’re a beautiful, intelligent woman with a very bright future, and you’re having the dinner of your choice in one of the most exclusive restaurants in the city.”
“That’s all very nice of you to say, but—”
“People don’t tell you this, but confidence is a muscle. When that muscle’s atrophied a while, sometimes it may feel a little forced when you’re trying to build it back up, but that’s just your relearning what you already know.” He signaled a passing waiter.
“And what is it I already know?” I asked.
“That you are every bit as deserving of confidence as anyone else in this world.”
The waiter got to the table and said, “Good evening, sir.” I looked at Dean to say something, but he gestured to the waiter, drawing the latter’s attention to me.
He was throwing me into the pool and calling it a swimming lesson. “Yes, thank you, I was wondering—”